


Should I Write Us A Love Song, My Dear

by animeangelriku



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Coming In Pants, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Frottage, Grinding, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon, Rough Kissing, Snogging, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), also the most poetic thing i've ever written tbh, this is just 2.4k words of flowery words describing these husbands making out, this is the most self-indulgent thing i have ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeangelriku/pseuds/animeangelriku
Summary: Aziraphale loves kissing Crowley, and he will never tire of kissing Crowley, and he will keep saying so and kissing Crowley for as long as Crowley allows him to, and that’s that.Crowley makes the sweetest sound when Aziraphale catches his tongue with the tiniest of nips, a devious, pleased smirk twisting the corner of his lips on their next kiss, a gesture that Aziraphale feels down to his bones, to his essence, to the very core of him, where Crowley has made his home.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 156





	Should I Write Us A Love Song, My Dear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smashedglassglitteringlikestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smashedglassglitteringlikestars/gifts).



> sometimes you need to write a self-indulgent making-out fic to pull yourself out of a depressive episode, and you know what, that's valid af, my dudes.
> 
> this goes to the folks at the Do It With Style discord server for being the coolest peeps. funny how support and positive feedback make you want to keep doing what you like, huh? who'd have thunk it. 
> 
> also, this is not beta-ed because i'm an anxious mess and i was too desperate for validation to send it to anyone before posting, so please forgive any mistakes.

Aziraphale sometimes feels like a broken record being played in his old gramophone with how often he repeats himself, but he never feels any guilt or remorse about it.

He loves kissing Crowley, and he will never tire of kissing Crowley, and he will keep saying so and kissing Crowley for as long as Crowley allows him to, and that’s that. 

Goodness gracious, Aziraphale loves kissing Crowley. He does, truly, and he can’t fathom how he spent six thousand years not kissing his beloved demon. 

(He can, actually, but he’d rather not think about it. He does not want to sully their kisses with those memories and thoughts. They are here now, and that is what matters.)

Aziraphale is thankful that they don’t necessarily have to breathe, just so that they can keep their mouths pressed together longer, pulling Crowley’s lip between his own, nibbling it gently, giving it a soft lick to soothe the bruised skin—even though they do occasionally forget breathing is an optional activity, and they pull slightly away, spit trailing between their mouths, before they dive back in. Crowley makes the sweetest sound when Aziraphale catches his tongue with the tiniest of nips, a devious, pleased smirk twisting the corner of his lips on their next kiss, a gesture that Aziraphale feels down to his bones, to his essence, to the very core of him, where Crowley has made his home. 

Oh, and if he were to get started on how marvelous of a kisser Crowley is, on the beautiful, breathtaking, spine-tingling things he can do with his sinful tongue and his perfect, miraculous mouth…

Lord above, Aziraphale could write odes to Crowley’s mouth. Shakespeare and Wilde and Keats and Donne and Neruda and García Lorca would have nothing on him. 

Crowley’s lips are soft and a bit plump, often sweet, mostly damp, and always perfect for kissing. They’re just the exact size to fit against Aziraphale’s, just the right shape for Crowley to pull Aziraphale’s lips between them, to gently tug them with his teeth, to nibble the skin and run his tongue over the bruised flesh. 

“Eager, are you,” Aziraphale teases him, his mouth brushing Crowley’s, and his beloved flashes a hint of teeth, the sharp edge of an almost fang. 

“Can’t help it,” Crowley replies, his voice low and guttural as he moves his hands from Aziraphale’s shoulders to wrap around his neck, “Love your mouth, always have,” and the honesty and devotion in his answer drags a whine from Aziraphale, and he slips his hands beneath Crowley’s shirt to push hard and heavily against the small of his back, the curve of his spine, pulling Crowley closer until he finds himself trapped between his husband and the sofa’s backrest, Crowley’s legs bracketing his thighs and their chests pressed flush together. 

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley exhales, delighted, a touch of surprise coloring his voice. He runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, sinking into the locks and tilting Aziraphale’s head back before he closes the distance between their mouths, immediately sliding his wicked tongue past Aziraphale’s lips. 

Aziraphale shivers when Crowley’s nails barely scratch his scalp, they’re holding on to his hair so tightly, and he slowly trails his hands up Crowley’s back, still beneath his shirt to feel the bare skin under his fingertips, to pull his beloved even closer. The movement forces Aziraphale to nearly slouch against the sofa’s backrest, thus forcing Crowley to lean further on him.

Crowley lets out a surprised yelp and cups his hands around Aziraphale’s neck so he can pepper kisses all over the angel’s face; on his brow, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, any and every inch of skin his mouth can touch. 

Even though that feels lovely, wonderful, magnificent, and even though Aziraphale knows how much Crowley likes leaving soft, tiny kisses over his face, he really wants to keep kissing Crowley’s lips, _please_ , not just be on the receiving end of them. 

On the next kiss placed near his jaw, Aziraphale catches Crowley’s mouth with his own and bites his lip to keep him there in case his beloved tries to break away from him again. But it doesn’t look like he will. On the contrary, Crowley’s fingers tighten around his neck, holding him close but never hurting him, a gesture only meant to keep Aziraphale right where Crowley wants him. 

Not that the sofa isn’t a perfectly good place to snog the living daylights out of each other, but Aziraphale wants to feel _all_ of Crowley, and while he loves having his dear husband on his lap, he’d much rather they were somewhere more comfortable.

He doesn’t even have to snap his fingers. It only requires Aziraphale to picture it, to remember how soft their bed is, how their bedroom smells like _them_ , and the universe complies to pull them from their position on the sofa and safely deposit them on the bed upstairs, their mouths still attached to each other. 

“And you call _me_ eager,” Crowley mutters teasingly, once more tilting Aziraphale’s head back, this time into the pillows, to kiss him deeper.

“Can’t help it,” Aziraphale echoes, because he can’t, he truly can’t help it—not with the way every touch of Crowley’s lips fills him with love and adoration. His hands are still beneath Crowley’s shirt, and they roam his back and his shoulders and go all the way down to his hips, unable to get their fill, Aziraphale wants to touch Crowley all over so much he’s _burning_ with it. 

Crowley must feel his sudden desperation on the press of the angel’s hands on his skin, or maybe Aziraphale breathes out a plea that is deaf to his own ears but not to Crowley’s, or maybe his demon has just always been able to read every little one of Aziraphale’s motions and gestures. Whatever it is, Crowley kisses him fiercely, his own hands gripping Aziraphale’s hair to push his head back as far as it will go and plunder his mouth like he wants to memorize its insides, like he hasn’t already, like Aziraphale wouldn’t let Crowley kiss him just like this for the rest of forever. 

Crowley breaks away slowly, after one last lick to the back of Aziraphale’s teeth, and even through his haze, Aziraphale can see the slight, barely noticeable trail of spit between their mouths, the slickness covering Crowley’s, and want and arousal pool within his belly and ignite his every cell, nearly overwhelming him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, his voice a needy, breathless whisper that has Crowley grinning and licking his lips, fully aware of Aziraphale’s eyes following the movement of his tongue and wishing it were his own.

Crowley’s eyes are more black than golden, his pupils wide with lust, and his hair is long enough to cover his collarbones, freely exposed because of the very low cut of his shirt, and Aziraphale’s mouth waters at the thought of dragging the skin between his teeth. But what he wants first, more than anything, is to feel Crowley’s teeth on _his_ neck.

Aziraphale inhales deeply through his mouth and vanishes his bowtie with a thought, opening the top buttons of his shirt while he’s at it. Crowley’s gaze darkens with a hunger so _predatory_ that Aziraphale’s skin itches with anticipation. 

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” Crowley snarls, leaning down to kiss him again, all teeth and tongue and absolutely no finesse to speak of, and Aziraphale’s toes _curl_ into the bed, his fingers tight and possessive on Crowley’s back, digging in just enough to make Crowley hiss.

His demon growls, a low sound that begins in his throat and ends in Aziraphale’s, and one of his hands moves from Aziraphale’s head down his arm, his side, his hip, until he reaches Aziraphale’s thigh and rakes his fingernails through the fabric of his trousers and _grabs_ at the flesh underneath it to pull it against his hip. 

Aziraphale gasps, his arms tightening reflexively around Crowley as his demon pulls away to press hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his jaw, the side of his neck, the bob of his Adam’s apple, and then his teeth graze the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat and Aziraphale arches into the touch with an embarrassingly whiny noise.

“Dearest,” he moans, “my darling,” and Crowley groans against his skin and presses him down into the bed—their bed, _their bed_ , their bed in their bedroom in their home in the world they saved, in the world they _love_ , theirs, theirs, _all theirs_ —his other arm snaking between Aziraphale’s back and the mattress to pull him closer and nuzzle his neck harder, to latch onto his pulse and suck his mark on Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale whines and pants against Crowley’s temple, and he can feel Crowley’s smirk on his neck, the sharpness of his grin, before he feels the sharpness of his demon’s teeth grazing his flesh, sending a heat that is solely human and yet no less marvelous because of it coursing through Aziraphale’s body as he clings more tightly to his beloved husband. He wants Crowley closer, closer, so much closer, he wants to fuse their corporations together until his essence brushes against Crowley’s, until he can kiss the places where Crowley’s form connects with his, until he can kiss the very atoms and bits of stardust that make him up. 

Crowley is still holding one of his thighs to his side, so Aziraphale curls his leg the rest of the way around Crowley’s, secures the grip of his arms around him, and he presses his other foot against the bed to push himself up and roll them over so he’s the one pinning Crowley down into the pillows now, his legs settling between Crowley’s, right where they belong, one of his hands curled around Crowley’s neck to kiss the breath away from him, licking inside Crowley’s mouth and relishing the full-body shiver from his demon, the way Crowley’s fingers dig into the fabric of his waistcoat. 

“Angel,” Crowley exhales, squeezing his knees against Aziraphale’s sides and clinging to him in an embrace that can only be described as constricting, the hold of a serpent, but Aziraphale feels nothing but safe and wanted and desired and loved, most of all, so, so loved. 

“My love,” Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley’s mouth, and then he murmurs it against the corner of his lips, and then against the shell of his ear and the arc of his brow and the curve of his cheekbone and the snake mark on his temple, “My love, my love, _my love_ ,” and Crowley throws his head back and clutches him tighter and cants up his hips and his cock is hard and hot even through their layers and Aziraphale is so turned on he might just burst with it. He adores Crowley, loves him, wants him so blessedly much. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps, the sound turning into a whine when Aziraphale presses him down into the bed with his own hips, grinding his erection against Crowley’s and feeling his demon push back until they can settle on a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm that nonetheless gives them enough friction to get them where they want to get. 

“Oh, _fuck_ , keep doing that,” Crowley pants, his arms winding around Aziraphale’s neck to bring their mouths together again, just a pressure of their lips rather than actual kissing, though neither of them minds too much.

Despite the lack of space between them, Aziraphale wants them to be closer still, to burrow into Crowley’s chest and never leave, to feel Crowley’s pleasure as if it were his own, to entwine himself with his beloved husband until he doesn’t know where one’s body begins and the other one’s ends. 

Aziraphale forces his knees beneath him so he can sit up, just a little bit, and his hands skim down Crowley’s figure to grab his thighs and pull them off the bed and against his hips, and when Aziraphale thrusts down with this new leverage, Crowley shouts, arching off the mattress and against Aziraphale’s belly.

“Like that, my dear?” Aziraphale says, wanting to sound cheeky and smug but most likely coming off as awestruck and breathless instead. 

“ _Yessss_ ,” Crowley hisses, the movement of his hips serpentine and hypnotizing, drawing Aziraphale deeper. “Yesss, angel, _yesssss…_ ” 

Aziraphale groans and leans down to kiss Crowley, eternally grateful that he gets to kiss and be kissed by this wonderful, unbelievable creature, by the one being that makes his traitorously human heart pound inside his chest, by the one he’s allowed to call the love of his life, his love, his _love_ , his beautiful, perfect, marvelous Crowley—

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whimpers. “Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley…_ ” 

His fingers clutch Crowley’s thighs as he shoves their hips together and pins Crowley’s body to the bed and licks the sweat from Crowley’s neck and tugs the skin of his collarbones with his teeth and sucks the hollow of his throat and Crowley thrashes beneath him and grabs the back of his head to pull him back up and kiss him and nip the tip of his tongue and Aziraphale returns the favor by pulling Crowley’s bottom lip between his and biting down slightly harder than he meant to and Crowley _keens_ , a broken, wounded noise that Aziraphale swallows.

It only takes three, four, five more thrusts, and then Crowley screams what sounds like Aziraphale’s name before his body tenses and coils around the angel, the warmth and dampness of his orgasm nearly overwhelming enough to discorporate Aziraphale. 

Crowley doesn’t lessen his hold on him. In fact, he uses his heels to bring Aziraphale closer, caressing his hair and murmuring sweet words into his ear. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale yells and comes in his trousers, almost drowned by the waves of love pouring out of his demon. 

They thrust softly and shallowly through the aftershocks, panting against each other’s mouth until they can regain enough breath to kiss properly again. 

Aziraphale drops Crowley’s thighs and slides down on the bed until he’s lying atop Crowley, carding his fingers through the beautiful curls. Crowley sighs contentedly, his knees still squeezing Aziraphale’s sides like he wants to keep him there until the sun explodes—like Aziraphale isn’t always looking for excuses to remain in bed by Crowley’s side. Like there’s anywhere else he would rather be than in Crowley’s arms. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale mumbles, and Crowley’s expression is so full of love and praise and devotion that Aziraphale swears his heart grows three sizes, or five, or ten. 

“I love you, too,” Crowley tells him, bringing his head down for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please consider leaving a comment if you liked this! uwu
> 
> if you wanna scream about these dumbasses in love, come scream at me on my [tumblr](https://animeangelriku.tumblr.com/)!


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